


All I Can Do Is Dream You

by DorotheaV



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22058263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorotheaV/pseuds/DorotheaV
Summary: Will is forced to attend an out-of-town journalism conference. Complete canon divergence.
Relationships: Will McAvoy/MacKenzie McHale
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	All I Can Do Is Dream You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SueG5123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/gifts).



* * *

“I’d like you to attend that conference.” Charlie’s tone is friendly but firm. There’s something else there, too—an undercurrent Will can’t quite make out.

Will squints at his boss. “What the hell for?” He shrugs his shoulders, reaches around and digs two fingers into the back of his neck, trying to smooth out the knot embedded in the muscle. One more sleepless night is going to kill him.

“They have people who train journalists on how to do computer-assisted reporting,” Charlie tells him. “I’d like you to attend some of their workshops.”

“Since when is using a computer ‘cutting edge’?”

“I’m not talking about surfing the Internet, Will. I’m talking about aggregating the data from 150,000 court records to recognize trends. That’s how _The Times_ won the Pulitzer last year.”

“Hate to break it to you, Charlie, but we do TV,” Will says, yawning. “Pulitzers are for print.” The sigh that accompanies this statement is followed by an enormous yawn that nearly dislocates Will’s jaw. It comes on so fast he barely has enough time to cover his mouth. _Fuck._ He needs to double his sleeping pill dosage.

Charlie peers at him with concern. “Still having trouble sleeping?”

“No,” he lies. "Well, a little." A lot, actually. Waking, sleeping, not sleeping—she won’t let him be…if only he could figure out a way to … no. _No_. He swore he’d never forgive her, and he won’t. “Now tell me the real reason you want the face of ACN to attend a conference aimed at paper-pushers,” he says from behind his palm.

Charlie sighs and then shrugs. “Can’t be too proud, Will. We have to up our game. I’d like us to start breaking news instead of following it.” He looks at Will cheerfully. “Don’t worry. You won’t be alone. I’m sending Martin, too.”

Will snorts in derision. “The AP?”

Charlie nods.

Will tries again. “Can’t you send Sean?” This type of conference is right up the seven o’clock anchor’s alley. “He loves that kind of crap. Makes him feel all … _detective_ -like.”

“No. I want you to go.”

Will takes a cigarette from the pack on his desk, puts it to his mouth and lights it. He leans back in his chair. “I can see that. What I don’t understand is why.”

“I just told you.”

 _Oh, whatever._ He’s too tired to argue. “Fine. I’ll go. It’ll give me an excuse to get drunk.”

Charlie grins at Will, surprised and pleased by his easy acquiescence. “Excellent,” he says, patting Will on the back. “But about the getting drunk part: you can do that the first two nights. I want you on your best behavior the last.”

“Why? I learned how to hold my liquor a long time ago.”

“Because you’re providing the entertainment.”

“I don’t juggle.”

“I may have mentioned you’re releasing an album.”

All the hair stands up on the back of Will’s neck and he jerks forward in his chair. _No._ “Charlie,” he says, suddenly deadly serious. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“It’ll be good exposure for you,” his boss says. “You can see if people like your songs.”

“I don’t give a fuck if people like my songs!” Will erupts. “You know damned well I’m just doing it to get it out of my system!”

“So, do it. Get it out of your system.”

What kind of game is Charlie playing at? He knows the only reason Will is releasing an album is to tie a neat bow around a particular box of memories so he can shove it off a cliff. The last thing Will needs is for everyone he’s ever worked with to see him bleating out lovesick melodies. If they want to jeer at him, let them do it on their own time—and definitely out of his line of sight.

“Charlie—I don’t want everyone I’ve ever worked with listening to me sing sob stories about—about—” _My ex-girlfriend._ “ _Those_ songs. I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“The press is going to be all over you as soon as that album comes out. Might as well get it over with.”

“I’m not promoting it and my picture isn’t on the cover so _no one from the press will know_! I’m not doing it, Charlie. Who do I call to cancel?”

“No one. You’re doing it, Will.”

“You can’t force me to perform! I did that album on my own time, Charlie! It has nothing to do with AWM!”

“And whose band did you use?”

“What?”

“The band. They’re from AWM’s stable of performers, aren’t they?”

“So what? It was a Will McAvoy production! ‘AWM’ wasn’t written on any of the contracts.”

Charlie tries another tack. “Will, those songs are too good to keep hidden. You could have a legitimate second career as a singer if you let people hear them.”

“I don’t need a second career! Legitimate or otherwise.”

“You’re doing it and that’s final.”

“You can’t make me!” Will says, sounding like a spoiled three-year-old. He peers at his boss. “Why the hell is it so important to you that I perform?”

Charlie shrugs. “Leona thinks it will be good publicity. If people see the human side of Will McAvoy she thinks it’ll help your ratings."

Will tries another specious—and admittedly feeble—tack. “These are reporters, Charlie. Not the general public. They have nothing to do with getting viewers to tune in to our show.”

“They decide what goes on the air, Will. If they cover your album it’ll be a ratings boost for you.”

Will shudders. If those songs get out—if people start speculating about the origins of those songs—if _she_ starts speculating about origins of those songs—he’s going to die from embarrassment. “Charlie, please. I’m begging you. Don’t make me do this. Tell Leona we’ll think of something else.” He starts casting about wildly. “Celebrities. We can get celebrities. Wall-to-wall celebrities,” he says, waving his arm. “As far as the eye can see. Elton John. That kid—Justin Bieber. Johnny Depp. The _Star Wars_ gang.”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.” And then it hits him. “Cirque du Soleil. We can get Cirque du Soleil to perform live on the show. Everyone loves the circus.”

Charlie snorts. “I don’t think it’s that kind of circus, Will." He pats him soothingly on the shoulder. "Just do it. Besides, it’ll be good for you to get away. Reconnect with people.”

 _Oh, NOW we’re coming to the point._ “Like who?”

“People,” Charlie says vaguely. “Walt Mathis, for one. He was press secretary while you were at the White House, right?”

It would be good to catch up with Walt but the entertainment portion of the program is something else entirely. Will makes a split-second decision: he’ll feign acquiescence to get Charlie off his back but he’s absofucking _lutely_ going to cancel the performance.

There. That settles it.

\----

Only.

It doesn't.

Charlie has already arranged for the musicians Will plays with to make an appearance and no matter how hard Will tries, or who else he tries to offer up to the conference organizers, they refuse to go with anyone else. In the end, he resigns himself to his fate: his band is good and they deserve the exposure. Maybe he can pretend he’s singing cover songs.

Which is how, two weeks later, he finds himself in a hotel restaurant in Las Vegas. It’s depressing as hell and Will wishes he were anywhere but here. Especially now because—as he’d discovered on his way to the hotel this afternoon (after procrastinating for as long as he could in finding out what the fuck is actually happening at this conference)—Charlie’s motivation has become all too clear: _MacKenzie McHale_ is one of the presenters. Though Charlie doesn’t know MacKenzie personally he knows _of_ her and, after a few late-night drinking sessions with Will, knows exactly what she meant to Will and how much he misses her. Will’s been a miserable son-of-a-bitch ever since Charlie lured him away from CNN and since it's a persona that's apparently completely at odds with his former self (or so Charlie has heard from mutual friends) Charlie's determined to give Will the opportunity to be happy again.

 _MacKenzie_ , Will thinks now. _MacKenzie_ , the woman who ripped his heart out, slapped it between two slices of rye and choked him with it two years ago is in the same building. She could pop up and scare the shit out of him at any moment and ruin his life (again). He doesn’t even want to think about what that means in relation to his idiotic scheduled performance. What the hell is he going to _do_? Unless some miracle happens, he’s screwed with a capital “s.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, trying to think of a way out of this nightmare. Given her propensity for over-preparation, she’s no doubt well-aware that _he’s_ on the agenda. His only hope is that she’s made too uncomfortable by his presence to actually stick around because the thought of her hearing those songs (in his presence, anyway) makes him sick. Imagining her sitting alone and pensive next to her iPod, longing for the man she so carelessly injured, the man to whom she’s realizes—too late!—no other man can possibly compare—is one thing. Actually seeing her expression as she listens to those songs—in real-time—would absolutely be more than he could bear.

Unless he can figure out a way to ensure she _doesn’t_. So that's exactly what he intends to do.

Somehow.

Almost as disconcerting is the fact that she’s currently delivering her talk sixty feet away from him. He’d practically wept with relief when a flight delay meant he’d arrived at the hotel some forty minutes into her presentation and so, rather than risk having her hazel orbs on him as he skulked into the room, he's parked himself here in the bar, drinking too much and keeping one eye on the double doors that lead into The Eleanor Room. Because that's where she is. He knows, because he can just make out her voice. It’s doing odd things to his mind, to his heart and possibly not-so-odd things to his body.

The fact that they're separated by wood and panelling and steel is a good thing because he doesn’t actually want to see her. Doesn’t want to be confronted with the fact that she’s moving on with her life while he’s apparently constitutionally unable to move on with his. And so, he sits at the bar, squirming in his too-tight collar and scanning the room for the quickest way out should she suddenly decide to burst into the room.

He knows he's an idiot. _Are you really going to hide behind pillars for the next two-and-a-half days lest she catch sight of you?_

Probably.

As he clutches his scotch, he tries to make small talk with Fred, a news director he hasn’t seen since the last boring journalism conference he’d attended. He can barely keep up his end of the conversation because every nerve ending in his body is thrumming with the knowledge that MacKenzie McHale is sixty feet away from him. It’s been two years, two months and seventeen days since he unceremoniously kicked her ass out of his apartment and out of his life but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss her.

Which sincerely pisses him off.

He’s not sure how he manages to come across as actually being interested in Fred’s conversation—or maybe he doesn’t—maybe the man is just too drunk to care—but he seems to be doing okay because Fred is still standing there.

Will lets his mind wander back to The Eleanor Room. He imagines she has the attendees eating out of her hand—say what you will about the woman’s morals, she can captivate an audience. He wonders if she’s here with her ex. Oh, she’d sworn up and down that she hadn’t seen that asshole since she’d ended her little dalliance with him a month into her relationship with Will but she’s not exactly the highest-ranking general in the truth-telling department. Not anymore.

_What the hell am I going to say to her if I see her? And how the fuck am I going to get out of that performance?_

At that moment, the doors to The Eleanor Room open and Will leaps to his feet, startling Fred so badly he spills his drink down his shirt. _Shit._ Will shoves his napkin at him and makes a few ineffectual swipes at Fred's chest. “Are you alright?” Fred asks.

“Sorry. Leg cramp. Exercise helps. Gotta go,” Will answers. Before Fred can reply Will throws down twice the amount of money required to settle his tab on the bar, grabs the papers in front of him and sprints towards the exit. When he hits the hotel lobby he heads for the elevator, forcing himself to slow down as he gets closer and closer to safety. _Almost. Almost. She’ll have to talk to people; it’ll take a while for her to come out. There. Made it._ The elevator doors close behind him and he breathes a sigh of relief as he glances down at the sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. _Shit_. In his haste, he’d grabbed Fred’s papers, which happen to include his plane ticket back to Wisconsin.

_I am an idiot. I am an IDIOT._

The elevator doors open on his floor and he looks three times both ways when he gets out. _You’re being ridiculous. Maybe she’s not even staying here._

He heads to his room and throws himself on the bed, trying not to feel too guilty for missing the workshop he’s signed up for. _Fuck_. How the hell is ACN going to get their money’s worth if he refuses to attend a single session? A word enters his mind then: _sick_. He can pretend he’s got the flu. Perfect. That’ll take care of the entertainment portion, too. But he has to work up to it: he can get a headache this evening, a sore throat tomorrow and he’ll be bedridden by the last day of the conference. All he has to do is convince Martin the AP and he’ll be home free. Martin’s not the sharpest tool in the shed so that shouldn’t be a problem. He’ll get Martin to return Fred’s plane ticket to him, too.

Will sighs as his conscience nags at him. He knows resistance in all areas will likely be futile: there's no way his overdeveloped conscience will tolerate such a dereliction of duties. Still, that little niggle isn’t quite as strong as his desire to avoid her so he spends the next three hours berating himself for being such a pussy: he’s ACN’s star anchor. The number two news anchor in America, for God’s sake.

_Why the hell should I be the one hiding out in my room? She’s nothing to me. Nothing._

Something quick and instinctive, buried deep under a fog of resentment and petulant defiance rises up in his brain and Will swallows it back. The loss of control lasts only a moment—barely long enough to mean anything—but he feels it, and even more importantly, his conscience _knows_ he felt it. The gloating amusement in his brain is not his own, but he feels it like sticky syrup in his head. He tells it to fuck off.

He feels it again, this time stronger, an intrusive, booming thought that sets his teeth on edge:

_Go._

Which is how he finds himself getting up off the bed and making his way to his suitcase. Fifteen minutes later he’s flinging his door to his room open and forcing himself NOT to look both ways down the hallway as he makes his way toward the elevators (if he happens to run into some unsuspecting passerby, so be it: that’s their tough luck). He squares his shoulders, steps into the waiting elevator and presses 23 on the control panel. Alone in the car, he inspects his appearance in the mirror and congratulates himself on the extra five minutes he’d spent combing the goddamned cowlick out of his hair.

Now he looks exactly like what he is: _a catch._

Fuck her. _And_ her boyfriend.

He heads back down to the bar, hoping to find something more substantial to ingest than a handful of peanuts. The urge to drink is strong tonight (fueled by boredom if not abject fear) so he’d better have something solid. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t overindulge tonight? No sense making an ass of himself. Especially if there’s a chance he might run into her. What if he says something too revealing, something that lets her know just how much he misses her even now, despite her treachery and calumny? It would be just _like_ him to blurt that out even though he doesn’t really want her back, even though he’d just as soon spit at her as look at her. But he keeps saying those words in his dreams so blurting it out is a real possibility. Since she’s in the same building, anyway. _Fuck._ He’ll stick with sparkling water.

He enters the bar to find it swarming with people. It’s the end-of-the-first-day mixer, one of those networking soirees that’s really just an excuse to get drunk or sneer quietly at the other attendees who do. The women have abandoned their pantsuits in favor of silk blouses, pencil skirts and heavier makeup that makes them seem hard, grasping and a little desperate. The men aren’t faring much better, dressed in Hugo Boss sports jackets designed to make themselves appear far more important than they actually feel.

He orders a soda water as someone sidles up to him, another person from his distant past. _What’s her name again? Reba? Renata? Rebecca?_ That’s it. Rebecca. He thinks maybe they slept together once. And by the way she’s staring at him, he thinks maybe she wouldn’t mind a repeat performance. Maybe he should go for it; it’s been a while. A good _long_ while and he could use a little R&R. Maybe he should ask Rebecca out to dinner in the hotel restaurant—and not just because _she’s_ likely to be eating in the hotel tonight, just ‘cause it’s easier. Okay, maybe a tiny part of him _would_ enjoy rubbing the fact that he’s moved on in her face. Just like she is, at this very moment rubbing it in his by being alive, in this hotel and (presumably) with her boyfriend. Rebecca’s blonde, tall, lovely, smart. Yeah. _If I could only guarantee MacKenzie would be eating in the same restaurant at the same time…that’d clinch it for sure. Then Rebecca and I would head back to my room for_ … his smile fades. How stupid can you be? Are you _actually_ considering having sex with a woman just to get back at your ex? He sighs, defeated, a little disgusted with himself that he would risk engaging a woman’s feelings for revenge. He tries to hold up his end of the conversation with Rebecca but it ain’t easy when his thoughts are full of someone else.

\---

Twenty paces from where Will is standing the subject of Will's musings halts in her tracks.

_Oh my God._

Will's body is turned away from her but there is no possible way anyone in the room—least of all MacKenzie—could fail to recognize his towering figure. Her chest rises with a swiftly inhaled breath and her previously placid heart trips a sudden, staccato beat. Instantly, the cacophony in the room dies down and all she can feel is his presence, pulsing at the only frequency her senses are now capable of receiving. She can barely stay on her feet and at that moment she knows she’s spent the last two years in vain: twenty-seven months of willing herself to be over him, of willing herself to believe their breakup was all for the best—gone in an instant. Indeed, all she wants at this moment is to be _soldered_ to him. It's absolutely astonishing she no longer has the right to touch him.

Will gives no indication that he’s sensed her, standing as he is with his head bent low to hear what his companion is saying. Perhaps if she can move around the table in front of her and step very softly she might hurry out of sight before he can turn from the woman who holds his interest. Then curiosity takes her and she cranes her neck momentarily to see who’s captivated him: he’s not the kind of man to waste time on some nobody; the woman with whom he’s speaking must be something of distinction to command his attention. MacKenzie stares hard at the woman whose lips are pressed so close to Will’s ear.

_Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Lovely smile. Just his type._

MacKenzie remembers how she and Will used to share an uncanny connection, a kind of invisible string that alerted them to one another’s presence in any crowd. Is it still there? Can he still feel her as much as she feels him? If he can, if that knowledge leads to an encounter, what will she say to him? _Do you still hate me?_ She shakes her head to clear it. _Stop it. STOP it. It’s over. You can’t go there. If he no longer hated you he’d have responded to one of your hundreds of attempts at contact. Forget it._

Catching her breath, she redoubles her efforts to escape as quickly and discreetly as possible. She has to get out of here. _Why did I come to this godforsaken conference?_ And then a woman to her right calls her name. Her head darts furtively to look at Will: _did he hear…_ ? _No_. He’s still talking to that woman. MacKenzie has no choice but to respond to her own former colleague and soon she’s enveloped in another part of the crowd, engaged in conversation, trying to focus and trying to blend in all the while trying to steady her whirling thoughts and beating heart.

Across the room, Rebecca is still talking and Will is still trying to pretend he’s listening but it’s practically impossible because she’s _here_. He can feel it. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he does. _Fuck. Where are you?_ Mercifully, at that moment, someone calls Rebecca’s name and as she turns her attention toward the sound Will takes the opportunity to resume his search, tilting his head, his eyes moving quickly around the room. And then Rebecca is tugging his sleeve, apologetically telling him she has to talk to someone. She promises to meet up with him later in the evening, but he barely acknowledges her, so consumed is he with scanning the room, both terrified and hopeful that his eyes will come to rest on MacKenzie McHale.

He’s thwarted when another face from his past pops up: Walt Mathis, former White House press secretary and newly installed president of fledgling cable news network CBN.

“Will! Good to see you!” Walt barks, clapping him on the back.

Will reluctantly tears his gaze from the crowd, plasters a tight smile on his face and greets his old compatriot.

“You too,” Will says, forcing himself to train his eyes on Walt’s face. “Congratulations on the promotion,” Will tells him. “How’s it going?” Will’s eyes drift up, searching, searching, then back again to Walt.

“Good. Good,” Walt tells him. “We’ve got two evening newscasts and they’re both ratings smashes, thanks to my second-in-command. I’d like you to meet her. She’s a rising star and I’m trying to introduce her to everyone I know.” He looks around. “She ought to be around here somewhere …” Apparently, he spots her because he whips out his cell phone. Will follows Walt’s gaze to the corner of the room and …

_there_

_she_

_is._

Twenty feet away from them. Beautiful. Radiant. Eyes sparkling with intelligence. Standing in a clutch of people, wearing a short, shimmery grey cocktail dress, her shiny brown hair done up in a loose knot with soft tendrils framing her face, her delicate fingers grasping the stem of a wine glass.

Fingers that used to …

_No._

_Don’t go there._

She’s smiling. A tight smile, as if she’s uncomfortable, shy. Then her face relaxes and she bursts out laughing. Jesus, that _laugh_. He used to spend hours trying to figure out ways to elicit it. The guy standing next to her doesn’t seem to be having any trouble with it, though, because her face is turned toward him and she is, in fact, laughing. _Is that your boyfriend?_ White-hot rage surges through him and he is inundated with a primitive, primordial wave of jealousy. _Damn you, damn you, damn you._ All of a sudden, she glances around, some sixth sense alerting her to the fact that she’s being stared at. Her eyes widen as her gaze locks onto Will’s and she stops laughing. Swallows. _Damned right_ , he thinks as he tries to stifle his rising panic, to clamp it down, to resurrect his pride and self-importance. _At least you haven’t forgotten who the big fish is around here._

She blinks once, twice, three times, four times, and then she looks away from him, then down, then back at her companions who are asking her another question. She answers them gamely and then her eyes dart to Will again. He’s staring at her, unsmiling, challenging her, daring her to keep her eyes on him. And somehow, ashamedly, he knows the look he’s giving her isn’t disinterest or anything that suggests he’s moved on.

_Crap._

He doesn’t know why he’s constitutionally unable to pretend he has: he’s been concealing his emotions for years. There’s just something about her that makes it impossible for him to hide his true feelings. Which makes absolutely no sense to him because he is _over. her_. Isn’t he? He sure as hell is. Well, officially. Either way, it's a message he fully intends to get across if she tries to come anywhere near him over the next three days.

Her chin comes up and then he sees some of the old defiance, the refusal to be intimidated. She stares right back at him, unsmiling, unblinking, until something diverts her attention and he watches as she opens her purse, grabs her phone and presses it to her ear.

And then Walt’s voice is cutting through the torrent of thoughts whirling through Will’s mind.

“Hey, it’s me,” Walt says into his phone and when Will sees MacKenzie mouth something into hers it occurs to him it’s probably not a coincidence that Walt is speaking into his phone and MacKenzie is speaking into hers.

_Oh shit, oh shit: It’s her. It’s her. Of course, it’s her. Who else would it be?_

“Come over here for a second, will you?” Walt barks. “I’m standing near the bar. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

MacKenzie turns her head towards back of the bar which, unfortunately, happens to be precisely where Will is standing. It’s only then that she notices that her boss (who’s a good foot shorter than Will) is standing at Will’s elbow.

_Oh, Jesus._

She whips her head around to face the back wall. “I’m in the middle of something—” she says quickly, trying to beg off.

“Well, wrap it up,” Walt says tersely. “I’m with an old friend and he’s a good connection to have.” He hangs up.

Will watches MacKenzie’s head turn back in his direction, sees her grimace and slowly place her phone back into her purse. She gives Will one last glance and turns away to say something to the guy standing next to her. _Making plans to meet up with him later in the evening?_ Will thinks. _Damn you._ She steps behind the guy and starts picking her way through the crowd and every nerve ending in Will’s body isn’t just on high alert—it’s screaming. Why? Because she’s coming his way. What the hell is that about? He’s supposed to be OVER her, dammit, not suddenly feeling like his open collar is choking him. He’s staring hard at her face but he has no idea what she’s thinking (he used to be able to tell but not anymore). He thinks maybe he saw discomfort in her expression just now. Surprise. Shock. Then again, how the hell would he know? He used to think he saw love in her eyes, too.

She deliberately focuses her attention on Walt because she knows that if she continues to pick at this particular wound it will never heal (though she suspects it never will, anyway). She tries to rally. _I can do this._ But as her steps bring her closer to the man she lost she begins to doubt her ability to feign indifference.

_God, help me. Please help me pretend I don’t care._

As the seconds tick by and she comes closer and closer Will is forced to acknowledge that while she is undeniably beautiful his attraction to her has little to do with her appearance. Rather, it stems from a deeper, nearly instinctual drive. The sight of her has awakened a feeling he hasn’t experienced in two years: he feels _alive_. Quickened. Heightened. And though gazing into her eyes always stops his heart, when he thinks about those beautiful hazel orbs it’s chiefly this feeling, rather than their hue or form, that stands out in his mind.

Not that she’s looking at him. She’s keeping her eyes trained on her boss, instead.

She makes her way toward them, averting her gaze, worrying her lip and looking even more beautiful up close than he remembers. And then everything in the universe crashes to a halt as MacKenzie McHale, the woman who has haunted his every waking (and dreaming) moment for the last two years, is suddenly corporeal and standing two feet away from him. _Oh my God, oh my God_. His heart is lurching so wildly he’s afraid it might burst from his chest. Her magnetism completely flummoxes him, makes it impossible for him to breathe or think clearly and his idiotic heart sings a song of love so loudly he’s sure she can hear it. It fills his body like a voice in a cavern. It oozes from his pores, makes every hair stand on end and shoots through him like a shock of lightning. _I’ve missed you so much. Why did you have to ruin it?_

She tries to hide her unsteadiness as she puts her hand on Walt’s arm and delivers her trademarked, non-abbreviated greeting: “Hello” (no “Hi” or “Hey” for her …the salutation to which she used to append any number of endearments that used to warm the cockles of his now cold and broken heart: _darling, love, sweetheart. Billy_ ).

She can feel Will’s eyes burning into her as he tries to discover whether being so close to him is affecting her the way it’s affecting him. It’s as if their relationship exists on two planes: an intellectual one, which is telling him she can’t be trusted and that he never knew her at all—and a subterranean emotional and physical one which is telling him she is the _only woman in the world for him_. He takes a single step forward, then stops, broad shoulders as stiff and straight as ever. His gaze burns into hers and she sees a brief flicker of the old desire before the shutters over his soul slam shut.

Walt loops an arm over her shoulder. “Will McAvoy,” Walt says, turning toward him. “This is my news director, MacKenzie McHale. Promoted after only two years as an EP because she’s _that_ good.”

Will opens his mouth to speak but Walt carries on, turning his attention to the woman who haunts Will’s dreams. “MacKenzie, I know you must know who this is, but I’d like to formally introduce you to Will McAvoy. We used to work together at the White House.” He looks expectantly from one to the other, waiting for them to exchange greetings.

MacKenzie’s lips part but she can’t risk an attempt at speech, afraid, in spite of her resolve to be brave, to feign disinterest, that only her deepest, dumbest longings will spill out if she does: _I’ve missed you so much. I love you. I love you._

Will is having similar thoughts but being the wronged party somehow helps him find his voice. “We know each other.”

“Really?” Walt looks between them in surprise. “Did you work together?”

“Lived together,” Will says crisply, his eyes never leaving MacKenzie's face.

Walt squints in confusion. “You were roomies? What—like in a dorm?”

Will nods.

“Huh. Where?”

“DC. CNN,” Will replies. Walt's always been a bit myopic so Will isn't surprised he doesn't know Will was the on-air talent when he and MacKenzie were at CNN.

 _Why aren’t you looking at me?_ Will thinks. _How the hell am I supposed to show you I’m over you when you won’t even look at me?_

“I never realized their salaries were so low,” Walt says cheerfully. Reluctantly, Will wrenches his gaze from MacKenzie, returns his gaze to Walt and stares at him. “I mean, so low the staff had to share an apartment,” Walt says, chuckling. He looks from Will to MacKenzie, wondering why neither laughs at his joke.

MacKenzie is silent. She’s keeping her gaze fixed on some spot in the carpet so Will has no choice but to up the ante. _You think you can just ignore me and pretend I’m not here?_

“A bed, actually,” he clarifies, and he’s gratified to see her eyes swing up to his and those lovely red lips purse in annoyance. “We shared a bed. _And_ an apartment. Technically.” Her gaze locks onto his and despite his insolence, despite his clumsy attempt at getting a rise out of her, she is lost. Nothing has ever been able to stir her as much as a glance from him. His eyes are clear and blue and as full of intelligence as ever but there’s something else there now. Something familiar and aching, a fiercely burning desire for _something_. To reclaim her? To inhabit her? Maybe she’s just projecting.

The air in the room lives with tension. A sizzle of withheld emotions, Will’s rigidity is that of a man restraining an unbecoming display of temper. Icy temper, in his case, as she's never known him to be any other than perfectly courteous even when furious. No, his fury freezes rather than scalds. But meeting his gaze now, she wonders if that's still true. She shakes herself out of it. She’s not going to engage with him verbally. She will not. She cannot. It’s too dangerous. But what can she do? He’s standing before her, solid and lovely and looking at her with eyes full of … _something_ —so maybe, maybe—maybe she can deliver a message. An honest one. One that will cut through the crap at the surface. She decides then and there that she has to take a chance. Because this may be the last one she ever has.

And so, casting caution to the winds, she reaches out her hand to Will. He looks down, surprised and unsure, but he knows the customs of his time and place and so he does the same. He barely manages to suppress a gasp when she gently grasps his wrist with one hand and uses the fingers on the other to start a slow, exquisite descent down the outer edge of his hand. His heart thuds wildly when she brings his palm to her lips and he watches, paralyzed, as she presses three tantalizing, delicate kisses against his palm: one, two, three. Each caress, each exhalation of breath against his skin transmits a message he receives loud and clear: _I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry._ She gives his hand one final gentle squeeze and lets it go, even though it feels like she is losing something very precious. And then she gazes up at him with an expression of such regret and longing his breath catches in his chest. He has no idea what she sees in his. _What are you—?_ His hand hangs there, mid-air until he has the presence of mind to retract it. His lips part but he can’t form words. And then he remembers what she did to him. _Fuck you for pretending you care. For pretending you CARED. How dare you!?_ He clamps his lips shut and she watches, helpless, as he closes himself off from her again.

She blinks rapidly but her eyes fill with tears anyway. Will stares at her fiercely, his blue eyes blazing with outrage. And then she feels her own temper start to flare. _How dare you act like you’re the only injured party in this debacle?_ She hurt him, yes, but from the moment she fell in love with him she’d loved him fiercely. Which had counted for absolutely nothing when it came time for him to decide whether she deserved a hearing. Apparently, nothing has changed. _Fuck you, Will. Fuck you. You still hate me? Well, two can play at that game._

Walt looks from MacKenzie to Will. “I guess introductions weren’t necessary.”

“No. Excuse me,” she says, refusing to look again at Will. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She turns around and hurries off. As Will watches her go, her name is on his lips and then it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“MacKenzie!”

And then he’s rushing after her, trying to overtake her because he can’t make sense of what just happened—what the hell was she doing, kissing his hand like that? What could she have meant by it? The crowd is thick and people keep trying to get his attention and even though the entire time he’s thinking _What am I doing? She cheated on me!_ his body is in charge, so he walks faster. He picks his way through the crowd and when she disappears around a corner he abandons all attempts at subterfuge and breaks into a sprint. She will not get away from him. He won’t allow it. He has no idea why exactly except that that is precisely what he needs to find out: _why_.

Why it all fell apart.

Why he wasn’t good enough for her.

The crowd parts, looking at him in wonder as he calls her name. “MacKenzie! MACKENZIE!” he bellows.

She shakes her head incredulously and keeps walking. _What the fuck are you doing? Are you TRYING to destroy me? The hell with you for ignoring me. For casting me out. You still hate me but NOW you want to talk? Fuck you._

She breaks into a run and at that moment, a waiter carrying a tray full of champagne glasses rounds the corner. She crashes to a halt and she and the waiter both sway precariously on their feet, two pairs of eyes trained on the tray in his raised hands. It teeters, wobbles, but he manages to maintain his grip while she stands on tiptoes, arms flailing and then Will is at her back, grabbing her by both arms.

She allows herself to fall back against his chest even as she cries out in protest. “Let me go!”

“Why are you running from me?” he says, turning her around to face him. He stares down at her face, which is contorted with anger because suddenly, all her emotions are at the surface, spilling over. “You’ve ignored me for _two years_ , Will. And now you want to talk to me? Why? So you can hurt me again? So you can let me know how _unworthy_ I am? Go to hell.”

He remains stock-still as her eyes flash up at his and she sees him swallow very slowly, as though against a painful obstacle. His eyes are still on her, wider now. In disbelief? Shock? His countenance is frozen, as is his whole frame.

“Get your hands off me,” she says.

“What?”

“I _said,_ get your hands off me.” She shrugs her shoulders and he removes his hands and takes a step back. His throat shows in his open shirt and she can hardly get the words out, regret and desire move her so. She’s missed him so much. To be in his presence once more, to be so close to him yet unable to touch him is killing her. It’s killing her and she has to get away. She can’t give voice to everything that lies below the surface so she says what she can, her words coming in short, staccato bursts. Urgent. Semi-pleading. “Just leave me alone. Please.” She shakes herself clear of him and starts to move off.

“Wait—”

She can hear his soft footfalls follow her down the carpeted, mercifully empty hallway. She’s hurrying and Will’s hurrying faster, trying to overtake her, trying to what? Destroy her? Is that what he wants? What the hell is he doing, following her around? He doesn’t want her, will never want her again, so how dare he keep trying to remind her of what she lost? Luckily, she's just about made it to her room. She grabs her key card from her purse and when she gets there, she waves the card in front of the sensor and hears the lock click. She shoves the door open with her shoulder and then Will is behind her. He stops so suddenly he has to reach out and grab the wall to keep himself from plowing into her.

She pushes her way into the room and Will follows her in. “I didn’t invite you in, Will," she says curtly. "Please leave." But Will can only stand there mutely as the door slams behind them. He can’t leave. Everything in his body is telling him his life depends on this moment.

They stare at each other, breathing heavily. “Are you hard of hearing?" she says. "I asked you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve made it perfectly clear that we have nothing to say to each other.”

“I’ve got a lot to say to you.” Of course, he has no idea what that might be but it seems like an appropriate rejoinder. He’ll think of something if it comes to it.

She makes the decision for him. “Well, I don’t want to hear it.” And then something in his expression—which is a mix of outrage and warmth and yearning for _something_ —compels her to be brutally honest. She has no idea what's gotten into her but, like the moment they'd shared when she'd kissed his hand, she knows this may be her last chance. “Unless what you want to say is ‘I take back everything I said two years ago.’”

His response is reflexive, immediate ...

... and insincere.

“Why would I want to do that?”

She flinches and feels hot tears prick at her eyes. "Then please have the decency to leave me alone.”

“MacKenzie—”

What are you _doing_ here? “What is it that you want from me, Will?”

“I just—” He doesn’t know what he wants. Except her. He just wants _her_. How is that possible? After everything she's done to him, how is that possible? What the fuck is he supposed to do?

Her emotions are choking her and she can feel herself tilting precariously towards hysteria. He’s standing right there and all she can think is how badly she wants him. She just wants him back. She just wants him _back_. But she can’t have that so she needs to get rid of him. But how? Maybe she can shame him by revealing her feelings. Not that she has much choice about whether to express them at this moment: they're so raw and powerful she’d be unable to conceal them even if she wanted to. And, indeed, it's always been that way with them: from the moment she'd fallen in love with him his presence has had the effect of throwing open the window to her soul. She couldn't hide how she felt then and she certainly can’t hide it now: the feelings are too deep. Too raw. Too fucking painful. So what if she’s about to humiliate herself? All she can do is give voice to her pain and hope he's so ashamed he'll leave her alone.

"Is it your ego? Does it require gratification? Will that get rid of you?"

He doesn't know what he wants but he knows it's _not_ ego gratification. “No—that's not—"

"That's a shame because if it were I'm sure I could give you satisfaction." He doesn't respond so she steps right into his personal space. "Do you want to hear how it felt when I saw you just now? How it took everything I had just to keep from throwing myself into your arms? Does that stroke your ego enough?"

“MacKenzie—”

 _God, the man is dense._ Does he have any idea what being in his presence is doing to her? Or is that the point?

“Do you need more? Okay." Her lips tremble and tears spill over her eyelashes. "Do you want to know how it feels right this second? To have you standing so close to me knowing I no longer have the right to touch you? I’ll tell you, Will. It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my _fucking_ chest. That’s how it feels. Is that good enough for you?”

“MacKenzie—”

“No!” she cries. “I don’t want to hear another word from you! Unless what you have to say is ‘I love you, I’ve missed you and I want you back.’ If you can’t do that, then please have the decency to leave me alone!”

Will shakes his head at her, amazed. “You did this, MacKenzie. Not me.”

This. _This_. The dissolution of their life together. An acknowledgement—at last—of the extraordinary bond they’d shared. She looks at him incredulously. He still doesn't get it. He still thinks this is all on her. _Arrogant ass._ “You’re right. I did it. But you’re the one who threw it away.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” He steps toward her. “Don’t you dare pretend I had a choice.”

“You did have a choice, Will! And what you chose was to not save our relationship! I lit the match but you refused to help me put out the fire. You were the only one who could save us and you wouldn’t! We’d have been married by now,” she whispers, her breath catching in her throat. “Maybe even had a child. We’d have been blissfully, stupidly happy—which is what we were right up until the moment you decided our relationship wasn’t worth saving! _That_ was your choice.”

 _No._ He's not going to shoulder one scintilla of the blame. “The truth has consequences.”

MacKenzie’s chin juts out defiantly. _When have you ever wanted to hear the truth?_ It had taken him less than a minute to throw her out after her confession. She’d not been given a moment to explain what had been going through her mind when she’d slept with her ex-boyfriend a few times a few weeks into her relationship with Will: that she’d been too ashamed to admit she wasn’t sure of her feelings. That the intensity of Will’s had scared the shit out of her. No. He’d never given her the chance to put what happened into context because Will McAvoy lived in a world of black and white; shades of grey weren’t in his color palette.

Still aren’t, apparently.

“The truth?” she exclaims. “When have you _ever_ wanted to hear the truth?”

“’ _Wanted_ ’ is the wrong word,” he snaps. “Try ‘ _needed_ ’ or ‘ _deserved_.’ And ‘five-and-a-half years ago’ is the answer to your question. _When_ you were having doubts about us and _before_ you decided to—” He clamps his mouth shut over those words and begins a new sentence: “Look. It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“Yes. It is!” she cries. “Because you wanted it to be!”

 _Are you insane?_ “I didn’t want it to be over! I never wanted it to be over!”

“Then why didn’t you try to save us?! If you loved me so much, why the fuck didn’t you fight for us?”

He doesn’t know if he wants to shake her or kiss her or both. How the hell did she manage to turn this around and try to make it his fault?

“These are the facts,” she tells him. “Brian told me a pack of lies when you and I were first dating and I believed him. But by the time I figured out the truth I had already slept with him a few times. And then I fell in love with you. Madly, passionately, _insanely_ in love with you. We spent three-and-a-half extraordinary, beautiful years together until you started talking about marriage. I wanted it to start out on the right foot and for there to be no secrets between us so I made the catastrophic mistake of confessing my sins. It took less than a minute for you to excise me from your life. You’ve refused every email, every phone call and every telegram. You did this as much as I did, Will. We could have gone to counseling, we could have tried any number of things to salvage our relationship but every one of them would have required you to _want_ to save us. And you didn’t! But you should have. Because we were worth saving.” She looks up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “We were worth saving, Will. You know we were.”

Her words are a bucket of tepid water thrown down his shirt collar.

_Oh._

That’s one way to look at it.

_Shit._

_Shit._

_But you’re just trying to deflect—to shift the blame—_

_Aren’t you?_

His mind reeling, he allows the question to make it through his defenses: _can that possibly be a reasonable way to look at what happened? Does that interpretation hold up?_

His mind doesn’t know the answer but Jesus Christ, his body does. He doesn’t stop to ponder further but takes a step to close the distance. Then another. And another. He doesn’t pause before her to gain permission or to perceive the emotion in her eyes. He only puts his arms around her waist, pulls her toward him and puts his hand on the back of her head and gently urges it forward so that it's resting against his chest. She doesn’t resist and he clasps her tighter, pressing his nose into her hair—smooth silk, warm from her underlying warmth. He inhales the achingly familiar scent, all MacKenzie, treasured and long missed. She doesn’t step back and he is spared the agony of rejection but still she makes no move.

Is she to remain frozen on the spot forever or is she going to put her arms around him? At long last she does and he can feel her shaking. _How foolish to cry so_ , she thinks—a deluge of silent tears—when there is nothing in her heart but the overpowering sense of homecoming. How ludicrous to soak his shirt in salty water but she can't help it: his only possible motivation for putting his arms around her is that he must want to put the past behind them. He must be _willing_ to put the past behind them so they can move forward. _Together._ She removes one hand from its place at his waist to wipe her cheeks with her palm, then raises her face to him. He brushes his lips against hers and dear God, it _is_ like coming home. For both of them. Each of them feels the same emotion at the same time: this is _exactly_ where each one of them needs to be. It's a joy that comes like a miracle, touching everything with light. He draws back but keeps her in his arms and his hand moves from the back of her head to stroke her face and brush away the tears. His moist eyes find hers and her heart leaps at the fire in those blue depths. 

“I never thought about it like—Christ," he whispers. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She takes a deep breath and gives him a wan smile. “I already have.”

“So quickly?”

She gazes up at him and he sees that her expression is still wounded. “I don’t have a choice, Will. It’s the price for getting what I want. The question is, do we want the same thing?"

"What do you want?"

"You," she says simply. "Us. The way we used to be."

 _The way we used to be_. Glorious memories of exactly what that meant—what that _would_ mean—wash over him. Oh, yes. He wants that. But the words get caught in his throat and he can only nod.

"Yes? You want that, too?" she asks him, recognizing his inability to form words. 

He nods again, this time enthusiastically, a mute "thumbs up" that's reflected in the sincerity in his expression.

“So do I," she whispers. "So, let’s do it. Let's get our lives back."

He regains his capacity for speech. Swallows. Takes her hand. And then says “I live in New York now.”

“What?” she says, confused by the non sequitur.

“You live in DC.”

“Yes.”

“So how do we do it? Get our lives back?”

“One of us will have to move.” She looks at him steadily. She's willing to give up a lot for him, maybe even everything, but she'd like to know she's not the only one willing to make such a sacrifice. “But I like my job, Will. I really like my job.”

He waits a beat as he processes that information. And in the end, decides he doesn't have a problem with it. “I’m the one who fucked up. Maybe it should be me.”

His words acknowledge how hard she’s worked, the sacrifices she’s made to get where she is professionally. And somehow, they make her next statement much easier. “Your job’s much bigger than mine, though. We don’t have to decide now.”

“I know. But I want to. Soon.” He strokes the hair back from her forehead and stares into her eyes. “I know this sounds crazy considering we haven’t spoken to each other in two years and we've only been back together thirty seconds but being with you feels right, MacKenzie. It feels _right._ Solid. Like everything’s the way it should be. I didn’t realize just how wrong everything was until I saw you just now but that feeling—fuck. It’s fantastic. An unbelievable high. I can’t explain it but it means more to me than any job ever could.”

She smiles and brushes her lips against his before bending down to rest her head against his chest once more.

And then something occurs to him. “Wait.”

She looks up at him again.

“Am I going too fast? Rushing you?”

“Nope. This time, we’re perfectly in sync, Will. I want to be with you. Whatever it takes.” She smiles at him again. “We’d better get back to the conference. Walt’s supposed to say a few words and I promised I’d be a friendly face in the audience. You can be one, too.”

“Okay,” he says, kissing her.

“Speaking of performances, I’m looking forward to yours on Thursday night.”

“God, don’t remind me,” he says, groaning.

“Why? Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

“I wasn’t—until a few minutes ago. But now maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“What happened a few minutes ago?”

“We got back together.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“All the songs are about you. And up until a few minutes ago, I was trying to figure out how to cancel the show so you wouldn’t find out how I really feel.”

“So they’re not hate songs?”

“Nope. They’re all about love: found, lost and regained.”

“Regained?”

“I dream about you all the time. So, one is about finding you again and telling you how I really feel.”

“Does that mean that all this time you _didn’t_ hate me?”

“I never hated you,” he confesses. “Certainly not in my dreams. Or in my songs. I think you’ll like them. They’re all very flattering.”

“I can’t wait to hear them.”

“You know something? I can’t wait for you to hear them.”

\---

Two nights later MacKenzie is sitting front and center when Will takes the stage.

“Thank you,” he says to the audience as he slips the leather strap of his electric guitar over his shoulder. He scans the audience to find the focal point for his performance. She’s ten feet away, seated next to Walt. Their eyes lock and he swallows as he begins his spiel, suddenly worried he’s not going to be able to get the words out with her eyes trained on him like that. “We were invited to play tonight because someone found out we’re releasing an album. We’ll try to make it worth your while. And let me just say that it’s a pleasure to be in the presence of so many women and men who are down in the trenches day after day, fighting the good fight. I’ve learned a lot these past three days and I hope we can—through our show—do better.”

He stumbles a bit, then rallies. “Which brings me to the entertainment portion of my spiel. I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with me for a couple of minutes because I’m going to be a little self-indulgent. Not just because I have the microphone but because, well, being up here with a captive audience gives me the opportunity to send a message I might not be able to send otherwise.”

“You see, the songs we’re going to sing for you tonight are love songs. They were inspired by a woman who’s in the audience tonight: CBN’s news director, MacKenzie McHale.” MacKenzie’s cheeks flush bright red and the people at MacKenzie’s table look at her in surprise. “She hasn’t heard them because we haven’t been on speaking terms lately. But we’ve remedied that failure and last night—against all odds (and perhaps her own better judgment)—she became my wife. We are in Vegas, after all."

The audience claps and cheers. He lets the applause die down a bit before continuing. “For those of you who don’t know her, MacKenzie is a staunch defender of every one of the six principles of ethical journalism we’ve talked about over the last few days: truth, accuracy, independence, fairness, impartiality and accountability. So, I stand before you, MacKenzie, humbled and grateful we’re going to get our second chance.” She smiles at him and he feels as if the sun has come out after a brutally harsh winter.

“I'm also grateful because I no longer have to lie about what inspired these songs,” he adds and the audience titters. “It’s true. As soon as I found out she was going to be here I started tying myself in knots, trying to come up with plausible backstories about the origin of each song so she wouldn’t discover the truth, which is that I’ve been pining for her for a long time. For example, I no longer have to pretend the first song is based on a relationship my Uncle Jake had. And that's a good thing since I don’t have an Uncle Jake and you're all journalists. No, the truth is that I wrote this first song because I dream about MacKenzie every night.”

He takes a deep breath and stares straight at her. Anticipation bubbles in her chest and he delivers the first phrases a capella, his lone voice quietly hanging over the crowd.

 _I’ve been away from you for so long  
Still, every time I think of us I get blue  
But all I can do is dream you  
_  
With that, he takes the first lick of his electric guitar and the sound echoes across the room. The rest of the band joins in and Will plays raucously, joyously, a bit of melancholy mixed with pure joy.

_I close my eyes  
And you look so warm and tender  
I feel you touching me  
I close my eyes  
I don’t even have to try—it comes so easily_

He stares straight at MacKenzie and the expression in his eyes—of love, happiness and joy—along with the roiling, rollicking beat—makes her heart thud wildly in her chest.

_I don’t know why  
I ever let us drift apart  
But look who’s sorry now  
‘Cause every time  
I wake up and you’re not around  
It always brings me down_

Will strums the guitar and the rest of the band complements the sound, their joyous tones thundering through the room.

 _Hey baby, all I can do is dream you  
_ _All I can do is dream you  
_ _All I can do is dream you  
_ _All I can do is dream you  
_ _Here I go, dreaming you_

He begins an intricate guitar solo, one so full of verve, feeling and joy that everyone’s feet start tapping.

When he sings the next verse he looks straight at MacKenzie, wanting her to know that even when he thought he’d never see her again he’d never stopped _wanting_ to see her, not for a second.

 _Every day I pray  
_ _That somewhere down the line  
_ _We will meet again  
_ _I'll find a way  
_ _To get you back somehow  
_ _But baby, until then  
_

 _All I can do is dream you  
_ _All I can do is dream you_  
 _All I can do is dream you  
_ _All I can do is dream you_

The song ends and when members of the crowd cheer, none do so more loudly than MacKenzie. When she looks up at Will his heart skips a beat as he fights to understand how he had come to be so blessed. She loves him. God. This perfect, beautiful, soulful woman loves him. 

He knows it's all he'll ever need.

\---

Twenty-five hundred miles away, Charlie scans the Subject line of an email from Will sent right before he took the stage. He braces himself for the wall of expletives that are about to dance across his vision and is momentarily puzzled by the text: _Thanks, Charlie. I owe you._

 _He's having a good time? That's ... good_. _Is it possible they haven't run into each other yet?_ He opens the message and is stunned to find a photo of Will standing hand-in-hand at the altar with a petite, pretty brunette in her thirties. They're gazing adoringly at each other but that does little to alleviate the nausea that roils Charlie's stomach when he confirms—with one eye closed—that they are, indeed wearing wedding rings. _Oh, Jesus. Please let that be—could it be a showgirl? She doesn't look like a showgirl. Please don't let it be a showgirl._ Not that there's anything _wrong_ with showgirls, mind you, but it's going to take a lot more than a showgirl to keep Will McAvoy in line.

Charlie opens his browser and hurriedly goes to Google Images. He quickly types _MacKenzie McHale_ as a single, sickening refrain repeats in his mind: _Please let it be MacKenzie McHale. Please let it be MacKenzie McHale. Please let it be MacKenzie McHale._

Seconds later he notices he's received a second email from Will, this one with a few more words than the last. He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees the contents of _this_ Subject line:

_Forgot to caption the photo: MacKenzie. EOM._

Grinning, Charlie gives himself a well-deserved mental pat on the back.


End file.
